Mahu Surfer (25 page)

“But tragedy seemed to follow this dedicated officer, all the way up here to the idyllic North Shore of O
‘
ahu,” Kim said. “Kimo’s friend and recent romantic interest, Hale’iwa retailer Brad Jacobson, was brutally murdered on this very beach late Sunday night.”

He turned to me, and the cameraman moved behind his shoulder, so that I’d be looking at the camera as I looked at Ralph. “Is it true that a stormy breakup with you Sunday evening led Jacobson to this stretch of beach, for a romantic rendezvous with a college surfer he’d met only moments before?”

“First of all, Ralph, I wouldn’t call what happened between us a ‘stormy breakup.’ Brad and I were friends, and yes, we had a brief, intimate relationship, but we had a disagreement Sunday evening, nothing more than that. As to what led Brad to this beach, I couldn’t say.”

“And you didn’t know the man he was killed with, Thomas Singer?”

I shook my head. “Not at all.”

The cameraman stepped back, getting both of us in the shot, and Ralph said, “Eyewitness accounts indicate that Jacobson met Singer at Sugar’s, a notorious gay bar here in Hale’iwa, and the two retired to the beach for a sexual encounter.”

To me, Ralph said, “How does it feel to know that if you hadn’t cheated on Brad Jacobson with two of his male friends Saturday night, he might be alive today?”

It was the ambush I’d been waiting for, but it still hit me hard. My mouth went dry and my pulse raced. Years of police training, however, kicked in, and I said, swallowing carefully, “I don’t know, Ralph. How would it feel if someone killed your wife while you were having sex with your mistress?”

For a moment, Ralph Kim lost his composure. His eyes lit up, and if looks could kill, I’d have died on that beach just as Brad did. But I saw his professionalism struggling to regain control, and he said, “This isn’t about me, Kimo. It’s about you and your behavior. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“If you have the right to drag my sex life across everybody’s TV screen, Ralph, then I can do the same to you,” I said.

Ralph turned toward the camera, ignoring me. “Contrary to police reports, however,” he said, “this does not appear to be an isolated encounter. KVOL News has uncovered three other unsolved murders of surfers on the North Shore within the last three months.”

Then he turned back to me, all professionalism. “Kimo, you’re an experienced homicide detective. Do you think these murders are all related? Should North Shore surfers be on the lookout for a homicidal maniac?”

“I wasn’t involved in any investigations up here,” I said, “so I really can’t say anything. But I’m sure that the detectives from District 2 are doing everything they can to solve every open homicide on their books, and I have full confidence in their ability and in the ability of the Honolulu Police Department to protect the public.”

The cameraman backed up, to include a wide shot of the surfers on the beach behind us. Ralph said, “This is Ralph Kim at Banzai Pipeline, with disturbing news about five violent deaths on the North Shore. Is someone shooting surfers? We’ll have more on this story at noon. Back to you in the studio.”

The camera man gave him a signal, and Ralph disconnected his ear piece. “Nice move, bringing up my girlfriend in a live interview, Kimo. I’ll remember that.”

“Yeah, and while you’re at it, remember not to drag somebody else’s dirty laundry out in the public unless yours is all clean.”

He stalked off toward Ke Nui Road, followed by the cameraman, and I headed back to my truck.

The Shooter

Just as I reached Ke Nui Road, my cell phone rang. It was Sampson.

“I saw your interview on KVOL,” he said. “Seemed to go pretty well, until Ralphie tried to sabotage you. You’ve got balls, man, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I met with Singer’s parents yesterday after I left you. They’re both pretty broken up. The father had no clue the boy was gay, but the mother says she wasn’t surprised.”

I leaned back against my truck. “The mothers always know.”

“They say there was never any evidence that the boy was into drugs, but the tox screens on the autopsy will tell us. I’ve got some witness interviews I can email you about how Jacobson and Singer met at that bar, Sugar’s. But you heard that from Ralph Kim.”

“Yup. I’ve also spoken to an eyewitness myself.”

“Good. What’s your plan for today?”

“I’m going to hang around the beach for a while, make myself visible, talk to people, and see if anybody has information.”

“Get back to me before the end of the day, Kimo. This investigation is getting a lot hotter very quickly and I want it resolved.” He hung up, and I stashed the phone in my glove compartment, then looked back at the beach.

Every time I saw that area of roped-off sand where Brad’s body had been found, it made me want to turn right around and head back to Cane Landing. But I couldn’t; I had a job to do.

I was pulling my board back off my truck as Mike Pratt’s girlfriend Trish came by. Today her bikini was an electric green, just a couple of swatches of fabric tied together with matching green laces. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “There’s a guy you should know about.”

“Who?”

“You heard about the surfers who got shot yesterday?”

I nodded. “I knew the one guy. Brad.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a guy who’s been shooting at surfers. Somebody has to tell the cops about him.”

I leaned my board up against my truck. “Who?”

“Mike found this great break near Kawailoa, and it was like, totally deserted,” she said. “He took me there once and it was really amazing. But I went back one day by myself, and this crazy caretaker guy came running down the beach, yelling at me and waving a shotgun.”

This sounded familiar, and I struggled to remember where I had heard a story like it. “Hold on,” I said. “This caretaker, did he have a prosthetic leg?”

“That’s him. His name’s Rich; Mike used to row the outrigger canoe with him. I heard he’s chased other surfers, too. Even shot at them.”

“You know anybody he shot at?”

She shook her head. “Just stories I heard. The guy’s a jerk. I mean, I feel sorry for him because he can’t surf any more, but that’s no reason to crack down on people who can.”

“I heard Mike had a fight with him after he chased you away. He tell you anything about it?”

She shook her head. “Just that he told the guy, Rich, to lay off me. I remember I told him that was sweet, but I could take care of myself. He said something like, not if somebody’s shooting at you.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” she said. “And then somebody shot him!”

“You think it could have been Rich?”

“I don’t know, but when I heard more surfers got shot I thought you ought to know about him.”

“Thanks. I’ll look into him. I’ll let you know if I find anything out.”

“Actually, I won’t be here,” she said. “The other reason I wanted to see you today was to say goodbye.”

“Where are you going?”

“Costa Rica. This guy I know runs a little hotel near a great surf beach, and he told me I can stay there if I help with the rooms.” She wrapped her arms around her. “I don’t want to stay here any more. Not after what happened to Mike, and now those other two guys. It’s just not safe any more.”

“I’m not sure I would go that far.”

“Get real, Kimo. I mean, you, like, knew that one guy. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

I thought about it. “It did at first. But I saw a lot of things when I was on the force, and so many times what happens to people is just random. If it’s your time to go, you go, no matter where you are, or what you’re doing.”

“All due respect, I think that’s bullshit,” she said, pulling off the band around her ponytail and retying it. “I hope nothing bad happens to you, Kimo, and I hope you figure out who’s killing all these people and the North Shore gets safe again.” She stretched up and kissed my cheek. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, good luck to you too.” I watched her cross the street and jump into the back of a pickup with a couple of other surfers. There were boards stacked along one side, and a pile of suitcases and plastic trash bags. I thought about surfing, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

Ironic how when I was chasing cases full time, all I wanted was time to surf; now I just wanted to solve this case. I hung around the beach for a few hours, bringing up the shootings to see what anyone had to say, but the discovery of the bodies the day before had chased a lot of surfers away. I was sure the remaining police tape didn’t help either. Everyone I talked to felt the same way Trish did. They were all leaving the North Shore, because they didn’t feel safe there any more.

I had tied my board back to the roof rack of my pickup and was just about to leave for The Next Wave and some Internet surfing when a dark blue Ford Taurus pulled up next to me.

Kawamoto was driving. Ruiz rolled down his window. “Saw you on TV,” he said. “Nice of you to give us a plug.”

“That’s just the kind of ex-cop I am. Loyal to the force forever.”

“Why don’t you hop in,” Ruiz said, “and take a ride with us.”

“All the same to you, I’ll come on my own,” I said. “I’d rather not get stuck in Wahiawa.”

Ruiz looked at Kawamoto, then back at me. “All right. Be there at three.” Kawamoto floored it down the street, and I was left wondering what it was going to be like being on the other side of a homicide interrogation.

As I drove toward Hale’iwa, I started thinking about Brad. If I’d gone directly from his apartment to Sugar’s, I might have seen him before he picked up Tommy Singer, and both of them might still be alive.

Jesus. I hadn’t thought about it that way before. I didn’t chase Brad that night because I didn’t want him to think I was a stalker, and because I felt like I had the right to sleep with whoever I wanted. I hadn’t made a commitment to him, exchanged rings or promised fidelity. We had some fun.

But what if I had tracked him down? Sure, we would have fought some more. He might have left the bar and gone home, alone, or we might have left together and gone back to his place.

There was a third choice, though. I might not have been able to reason with him, and I might have left the bar, leaving him open to meet Tommy. But why hadn’t he just taken Tommy back to his place? Certainly they couldn’t go to Tommy’s dorm in Manoa, but why go to the beach? Brad had brought me back to his place; why not Tommy?

When I reached The Next Wave, the first thing I had to do, I realized, was find out Rich’s last name. Duh. I could have asked Trish or Melody, but I hadn’t. So I went to the web site for the North Shore Canoe Club, and searched until I found a set of pictures, with team members identified. His last name was Sarkissian. That would make things a little easier; at least his name wasn’t Smith or Jones—or in Hawai’i, Lee, Wong, Kim or Young, the most common names in the phone book.

I googled for Rich Sarkissian and Richard Sarkissian, and found a few hits that I thought were good. A Rich Sarkissian belonged to the VFW chapter in Honolulu, and noted that he had served in Bosnia from January to September of 1993. That jived with the Rich I’d met, who looked to be in his early thirties.

Then I found an article in an online magazine about people with prosthetic limbs, dated two years before. Rich Sarkissian, 31, of Hale’iwa, Hawai’i, had developed his own physical therapy program, which involved rowing in outrigger canoes. Another direct hit.

I logged into the police database, noting that my ID and password still worked, and wondered idly who else had access to this data—who knew I was still working as a cop, besides Harry and Terri, and Sampson? Did it matter?

Rich Sarkissian had been the subject of two complaints, both from surfers who said he had shot at them. Neither ended up pressing charges, because they both had waves to chase in other places. I emailed Lieutenant Sampson to ask him to get hold of Rich’s military records. It would be interesting to find out if he was a sharpshooter.